Definition: Prolusion
by Dream Writer 4 Life
Summary: Lauren's capture, the DW4L way. Fourth in Definition Series. A Dream Writer Experience.


**Others in series:**

1. Definition: Harangue  
2. Definition: Blitzkrieg  
3. Definition: Prolepsis

Title: Definition: Prolusion  
**Series:** Definition  
**Author:** Dream Writer 4 Life  
**Rating:** PG-13 for violence and language  
**Genre:** Angry angst, but I won't call it AA  
**Archived:** SD-1, , and Cover Me. Anywhere else, just ask and you shall receive!  
**'Shippers' Paradise:** S/V  
**Spoilers/Timeline:** AU; major spoilers up to 3.17 "The Frame", but everything else is AU.  
**Summary:** Lauren's capture, the DW4L way. Fourth in Definition Series. A Dream Writer Experience.  
**Disclaimer:** If I own "Alias" and these characters, someone owes me a helluva lot of money. Damn the American postal system for keeping the money that's rightfully mine! In other words, I own nothing. Period. End of story. Wait no it's not! Keep reading!  
**Suggested Soundtrack:** Go on an Evanescence kick. "Field of Innocence", "Give Unto Me", "Lies", and "Hello". Oh and "Painters" by Jewel.  
**Author's Note:** Band camp = over, and instead of something happy you get this. Sorry. Hope you enjoy, anyway.

  
  
Definition: Prolusion **  
  
Prolusion**, noun: [archaic or formal] a preliminary action or event; a prelude Details. 

They seem to elude you most of the time, surfacing occasionally and sending up flags of every colour in the spectrum. And they are _strange_, too: the itch of your combat fatigues despite the liberal layer of sweat between them and your skin. The untied shoes of the guy sitting next to you. (Passively, you think of pointing them out to him, but stop just short, nearly laughing at your own absurdity.) The way a thick lock of her thin hair adheres to her face like a child's sticker, refusing to relent even after two flicks of her head.

But everything else is pretty much one giant, long, grey blur.

You have absolutely no idea how you managed to stand without swaying like a weeble-wobble toy, even though you would have had a great excuse: cargo planes are not notorious for their stability and sure footing. Strapping a parachute vaguely sparks something in your memory banks, most likely because of the funny clicking noise the buckle made as it snapped into place around your waist.

Then you jump out of a plane.

HOW?

A very valid, very simple question.

One that will probably never have an answer.

Only when you land on hard, cracked earth do you realize you even jumped. Your Farm-honed skills and instinctual finesse must have kicked in at some point, or you would either still be in that plane...or flattened against the unfriendly ground like the bugs on your windshield after a drive to your mother's house.

Then she lands about one hundred feet in front of you as graceful as a tissue floating to a carpeted floor. She quickly disentangles herself from the black parachute and turns towards you, and, like an idiot, you're still fumbling with the catch like it's a fucking Rubix cube. Suddenly she stands not a foot away, helping you with that Goddamn buckle. Her hands covering yours spark a million other memories, ones that far outrank this on the Happiness Meter. But just as quickly as they appeared her hands are gone, taking with them warmth, guidance, and reassurance. Some of that comes rushing back, however, when she flashes you one of the smiles she used to reserve just for you, her dimples mere shadows in the dim moonlight.

Ready to saddle up, partner?

You nearly laugh at her, at her ability to cheer you up even though her stability is as precarious as a wine goblet perched on the edge of a table subject to trade winds. That is exactly what you said as you gathered op tech for the takedown of SD-6 and she looked like the child of A Nervous Wreck and Death Warmed Over. Somehow it had coaxed a smile from her, and now it draws a smile from your lips, digging deep inside to where your happiness is buried and extracting a small sunbeam for her alone.

But your moment is fleeting; that much you remember.

Your recollection jumps from the amusing, lightning bug-quality of your colleagues' flashlights on the desert ground to being flattened against a wall next to her, the scratchy stucco poking the back of your skull.

Insert more grey blur here.

You know you killed people, can feel the blood trickling over your fingers warm and thick as if you plunged into their bodies and drew out their beating hearts. And you like it. That vivid crimson streak running through your consciousness is testimony enough. You devour your rage, and although it diminishes after every shot or punch to the gut, those who stand in your way only serve to fuel your malcontent. Don't they know you've got somewhere to be? Don't they know they're in your way? Don't they know you _need_ to see that woman, the person who blew up the foundations of your life, kept you away from your True Love, and destroyed everything you ever thought you knew EVER?

Guess not, 'cause they keep comin' and you keep knockin' 'em down.

Somewhere along the way you lose her. You turn around expecting to see her, but all that greets you is an empty corridor. (It's not empty per se, because there are two bleeding and unconscious people posed grotesquely down the hall.) But this doesn't bother you a bit. She was always telling you not to coddle her — that she was a big girl; she can take care of herself for once.

You continue on.

Despite the slight feeling of unease, the slip of black struggling against the red.

More hallways, more stairs, more bodies. Standard procedure: see Big Burly Bad Guy, shoot Big Burly Bad Guy, move on. Your memory may be fuzzy, but your emotions are still Waterford crystal-clear, and that stripe of red has flowered into a veritable road running through your consciousness, consuming the wavering black. You know if you're not careful, it will consume you the first chance it gets. But at this point, you don't really care if it bites you on the ass or robs your house, because reveling in your hatred and malice feels _great_. Orgasmic-great. Winning-three-hundred-million-dollars-great. _You're-free-great._ So you openly embrace the gnawing, red anger, because the alternative — the black, bottomless, unforgiving abyss — is not an appealing option.

You'd rather feel _something_ than nothing at all.

At least with anger, Sydney has pieces to pick up after all this is over. And with her shining and smiling at the end of this long, crimson tunnel...you know you won't lose yourself too horribly.

A means to an end. That's all this is.

You continue to battle through this filmy haze, not sure whether you're trying to break through to the other side or find the nucleus and planted yourself there. _More_ hallways, _more_ stairs, _more_ bodies, and _still_ your gut is not satisfied. Not until you find her. Seek her out, find her, and slit her throat, allowing her blood to mingle with all the other anonymous bullies you've killed on your path.

Suddenly there she is. At the pinnacle of a dead-end corridor she stands backed against the wall with her arms plastered to stucco on either side of her.

This part you remember vividly.

Her usually sleek blonde hair hangs in stringy, sweaty strands around her pallid face — a façade recently void of the blush associated with physical exercise — running in particular. Her entire body trembles like glass in an earthquake, and her eyes are so wide that they practically envelop the rest of her face. She is a picture of fear and innocence intermingled, the mixture of a cornered mouse and a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding SUV.

In short, she catches you off-guard.

She is not your wife, the sweet but opinionated woman who helped cook meals with you and shared your bed. Nor did you expect her to be.

But she is also not the super spy you expected to face off with, the gun-toting mistress of espionage you want — _need_ — her to be.

Instead, a sniveling mass of humanity faces you from the end of the hallway. You shake your head in what can only be described as pity.

Gone are the expectations of an epic battle, one you would most certainly win.

Gone is the anger you cherished so dearly not one minute before.

Gone is any scrap of respect you still held for this woman, this wasted bunch of bones and muscle.

Gone is any hope for the fulfillment of your revenge.

She opens her mouth to speak, but what comes out is not what you want to hear. "Michael...Darling...P-please d-d-don't do this...I love you...I always have..."

No. This is _not_ how it's supposed to go. You need her to stand tall and say something strong, or at least something solid. None of this wavering, wishy-washy shit. Something that could evoke _some_ kind of emotion from your rapidly freezing soul.

But there are no harsh declarations or denouncements. There are no long diatribes in which she reveals her evil master plan. Just a lot of emptiness.

She continues to plead with you as you advance towards her, gun lowered at your side. Clawing desperately, she almost climbs the wall in an attempt to get away from you. Stopping just out of arm's reach, you shake your head again, too saddened to conjure anything just yet. But before you can say a word, she straightens abruptly as her hand delves behind her back and resurfaces with a handgun, presumably from the waistband of her jeans. Without hesitating she spins you around and lodges the barrel of the gun into the underside of your chin. You know you can easily overpower her, but just as instinctual is the knowledge that she will not balk and let you slip through her fingers. She _will_ shoot. So you follow her instructions and toss the gun to the floor, but against your silent demands, she does not bend to pick it up, but instead throws you against the wall and begins to back away, still wielding her firearm.

"You stupid, stupid ass," She spits, smiling condescendingly. "You'll believe anything, won't you?" You start towards her angrily, but she waves the gun, a reminder of your situation. "Our marriage was a lie. You still loved _her_ and I...well, I certainly did not love you. It was only a means to an end."

A means to an end. That's all _you_ are.

God, you are such a fool.

She played you like an instrument, she schooled you like a student, she fooled you like...well, a fool.

"And now I must run, love. Bye—"

"Vaughn!"

It's her, and your heart leaps at the sound of her voice.

Lauren is momentarily thrown off-balance as she tries to adapt to this new situation, tries to threaten both of you at the same time with the same gun.

Obviously it does not work. In halving her attention she loses all of it, and as she faces Sydney, you push off from the wall and pounce, knocking the firearm out of her grasp and dealing her a swift blow to her temple with your elbow. She crumples to the floor in an unconscious heap, and you pick up your gun again.

It's over just that quickly.

How anticlimactic.

And you realize that despite your aggression — that jab felt _really good_ — you feel miraculously unfulfilled.

But you don't dwell on that feeling for long. The two of you advance towards one another and embrace fiercely, gripping the other tightly as if making sure you're _really_ there, this is _really_ happening. That it's _really_ over. You exchange places as your kiss deepens both physically and emotionally, and you feel diamond-sized tears wet both of your faces. As you reach up to brush them away, though, a movement behind her catches your attention. You are too slow to react, however, too weighed down by the abolition of the wall between you to bring both of you crashing to the ground.

You hear the piercing shot.

And the love of your life goes rigid with shock, eyes widened with disbelief and horror. Then she slumps, unnervingly still.

Even as you hold her limp body, you are on autopilot, drawing your newly recovered weapon and firing the entire clip in Lauren's direction, making sure every single bullet hits her vile form. She falls back to the floor, most assuredly lifeless, and her gun slips from her grasp for the last time. You switch your comm. link back on (you turned it off before searching in solitude) and scream out your location, demanding a medical team find you immediately — there is an agent down.

Now the blood on your hands is a curse; you do not want her pure, untainted blood mingling with that of those _you_ have killed. It now flows freely over your palms and between your fingers like water from a faucet. You cannot stem it. You rip the knit cap from her head and press it against the wound, and her unconscious body inhales a harsh breath wrought with pain.

At least you know she still lives, but whether you both cling to a false hope is yet to be seen. For now, you cling to _her_, too intent on keeping her alive to idle on the thought of spending the rest of you life without her. Again.  
  
**_END

* * *

_**There are two more in the series. Yay! Hope you enjoyed. Feedback is cherished deeply. 

:D Becky, the Dream Writer 4 Life


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